What Love Is

Jeffrey L. Taylor

August 25, 2024

Yes, it’s stirring the oatmeal,
both of us checking, stirring,
tasting.  The kitchen timer
just doesn’t do as good a job.

It’s also sleeping in the hospital
on a recliner that won’t recline,
curled up, head on the armrest,
her in the hospital bed, hooked up
to multiple monitors, an IV in her arm.

Bring a blanket, food, several bottles
of water.  Surreptitiously bring
vitamins and medicines
you have at home.

She will be fearful, fragile,
need additional courage,
reassurance she is beautiful
in a hospital gown,
her hair a mess.

You will need to extend an arm,
both physical and emotional.
Always say she will be
leaving on your arm.
To stir the oatmeal together.

Jeffrey L. Taylor is a retired Software Engineer.  Around 1990, poems started holding his sleep hostage.  He has been published in The Perch, California Quarterly, Texas Poetry Calendar, and Texas Poetry Assignment.

A Prayer for Heaven’s Gift

Jesse Doiron

July 7, 2024

Do not give me virgins when I die,

give me well-read women who can drink.

I like them fat and prone to laughter.

And they should argue well – very well.

And 70?  I think a bit too many there.

So make it one; just one would be enough, 

at least for me, if right. And so, by that,

I mean she’d have to like me some,

but not so much as would be bothered 

if I asked her for an eon all alone.

Eternity’s a long, long while, you know.

Still, she should miss me when I’m gone. 

It would be nice, as well, if she could cry,

when crying’s absolutely what to do, 

and she should certainly let me cry, too.

But even then, she must endure what tears 

may come – her own, or mine, or ours. 

She should retain a renaissance of smile 

when I recall aloud the names of those she

bedded before she wedded me – especially 

that well-made man, Danilo, in Ukraine.

And she should pull me to her breasts 

at times like these and say the difference 

was not a matter she would notice much 

since, indeed, it seems, she rarely did.

She must like to cook, but not cook well, 

so that I can cruelly say “I am not hungry.” 

And thus, cause her to anger and to sulk, 

but, then, forgive me later in the night, 

when we are occupied with other things. 

Her will must make me better than I am,

break me apart to mend into a stronger man.

She should demand whatever I can give, 

but owe me nothing more than being there.

Which reminds me, I don’t mind waiting 

for heaven’s gift, I mean, the dying part.

For what I want in your foreverness, 

you have already here, for me, sufficed.

Jesse Doiron has worked in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia as an educator and consultant. His teaching experience ranges from English for international business at the UC – Berkeley Extension in San Francisco to creative writing at the Mark Stiles Maximum Security Prison for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.

La Vie en Rệve

Uliana Trylowsky

June 23, 2024

She takes her morning café crème outdoors in Les Lices.

Meanders the narrow streets of La Bastide in the afternoons.

Sips an evening spritz at the Café St. Jean.

Lives within a foreign dream – from her desk in Texas.

While the work lies untouched.

“Why was I not born in France?”

Her chest feels tight. Heavy.

She could leave, move to Rennes, Bordeaux, Paris.

Few women nearing sixty pack up,

Leaving behind a husband, cat and home.

There must be some who escape.

The ones who chose the greener path.

The ones with freedom.

The ones with ties that do not bind.

The happy, lonely ones.

How can the now feel such a burden?

How can love impede a dream?

Is it better left alone?

She takes her morning coffee in the kitchen.

Watches the cat meander the garden.

Sips wine with her husband in the evening.

Falls asleep reading Colette en francais.

Uliana Trylowsky is a transplanted Ukrainian-Canadian who has lived in Southeast Texas for over 25 years.  While she struggled to accustom herself to the unique qualities of the region, she now calls it home and, until the war in Ukraine, found herself to be quite a happy person.

Book Lovers

Robert Allen

December 10, 2023

after James Tate

        One slow gray Thursday afternoon Earl was

reading in the living room when Nadine called from

the bedroom: “Why is there a row of pennies on the

dresser?” “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“What do you mean, husband?” “You know I don’t

carry pocket change anymore. That’s where I put

pennies when I empty my pockets.” “Can’t you put

them in a drawer?” “The drawer is for nickels, dimes,

and quarters,” Earl replied. “I think you’re resistant

to change.” “Are you making a pun?” “No, not at all.

You are resistant to change.” “I am not,” Earl

countered. “Life is change. I read it in a book once.”

“What book, Earl?” “I think it was The Chrysalids

by John Wyndham.” “You never read that book.”

“The amazon telepath makes a speech at the end.”

“You got that out of Wikipedia. I’ll tell you where

you got the idea. You heard it in a song by Jefferson

Airplane called “Crown of Creation.” They got it

from Wyndham’s book.” “Okay, you caught me.

I did read it, though, in another book.” “What book

was that, dear?” “A book called Heal Your Body by

Louise Hay.” “Sounds like something your brother

told you about. What does it say in that book about

change?” “Dagnabbit, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Wait,” Nadine called out. “Is this a copy of Heal

Your Body here on the bed?” “Don’t you dare

pick up that book.” “Let me see. Right here on

page sixty-six, when you look up stroke, it plainly

says: Giving up. Resistance. “Rather die than

change.” Rejection of life. Is that why you didn’t

want me to read this?” “Yes. Because that’s not

at all what I was thinking when I had my stroke.”

“Oh? What were you thinking, dear?” “I don’t want

to talk about it.” “Sounds like you’re resisting

change.” “I am not.” “By the way, husband, have

you changed your pants recently?” “No. I’m going

to wear these jeans until they can stand up all by

themselves.” “That’s what your father used to say

to your mother.” “Oh, yeah? Well, some things never

change.” “Oh, yeah? Well, it’s starting to rain, love.”

Robert Allen is retired and lives in San Antonio with his wife, two children, five antique clocks, and two cats. He has poems in Voices de la Luna, the 2023 Texas Poetry Calendar, and TPA. He loves cardio-boxing workouts, hates to throw things away, and facilitates Gemini Ink's in-person Open Writer's Lab.

Morning Kiss

Robert Wynne

December 3, 2023

She pulls me to her each morning

and tells me to brush my teeth.

What love there is in a tube of toothpaste!

What wonder in the mint-flavored dreams

of our mouths hungry for each other

after a night of nothing but air.

Robert Wynne earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University.  A former co-editor of Cider Press Review, he has published 6 chapbooks and 3 full-length books of poetry, the most recent being Self-Portrait as Odysseus, published in 2011 by Tebot Bach Press.  He’s won numerous prizes, and his poetry has appeared in magazines and anthologies throughout North America.  Recently retired, he lives in Burleson, TX with his wife and their German Shepherd.

Marriage Preposition

Alan Berecka

November 26, 2023

Fresh out of college, working for Ma Bell,

I spent too much time in Luke’s Outhouse

on Harry Hines on the seedy side of Dallas,

where I washed away too many brain cells

one frosted beer at a time, trying to forget

the woman who I once thought was mine,

trying not to remember the life I once

imagined as I fed the old jukebox

stuffed with country western classics

fistful of quarters to listen to Hank

whine about cold, cold hearts, paced

the floor with Ernest, fell to pieces

with Patsy, wished the world away

with Eddy, and agreed with Gentleman

Jim that the man now with her

should go, even if Luke would never

have turned his jukebox way down low.

That sad sack of kid, who dined

on Luke’s free popcorn while drowning

in self-pity, getting plastered night

after night, couldn’t imagine that one day

he’d meet the right woman and they

would learn to love each other deeply

and in doing so he’d learn how wrong

great songs can be for she would never

be his, and she would never be married

to him, rather they would remain married

with each other for four decades and counting,

and he’d come to understand that only misery

can be found in the attempt to possess anyone.

Alan Berecka is a retired librarian, who lives in Sinton, Texas, with his congenial wife Alice and ornery Belgian Shepherd Ophelia. His sixth full collection, Atlas Sighs: Selected and New Poem is forthcoming from Turning Plow Press. From 2017-2019, he served as the first poet laureate of Corpus Christi.

Seasoned Love

Jan Seale

November 19, 2023

What if two,

after long years of living,

after the depths and heights

of the heart’s journey,

after the joy of having children,

after travels, situations,

friendships, failures, 

triumphs and dreams—

what if two should

by happy chance 

find each other?

Then, let them note 

that sunsets show 

the grandest colors,

that the open blossom 

gives off the sweetest scent,

that only the tall tree 

gives shade.

Let them delight 

that rain is followed 

by sparkling dew,

that thunder and lightning 

bring the freshest air,

that a pale moon 

may visit a dawning sky.

And let them content themselves

with laughter and stories,

with weaving their skills together,

with noting the seen and unseen.

Let them know 

that they have received

a blessing full-fold,

and are to take the testimony

of love in all its strength

and bear it forward.

Jan Seale lives in deep South Texas.  She has authored nine poetry volumes as well as books in fiction, nonfiction, and children's literature.  She is the 2012 Texas Poet Laureate. "Seasoned Love" was read at her wedding five years ago to a man she had known for many, many years.

Con Amor

Dario Beniquez

November 12, 2023

For Connie Wong

After the last conga dance

and the last mariachi song

ended, our faces tired

of too much happiness, 

our hands swollen 

with too much holding

our ribs crushed

with too much hugging, 

we sat up on the bed

reaping the joy

of too much loving,

something my mother

warned me about, something 

I always disobeyed.

Dario Beniquez is a poet. He grew up in Far Rockaway, NY. He lives in San Antonio, TX. He is an USAF Veteran. He holds a BEIE, Pratt Institute, NY, and an M.F.A, Pacific University, OR. He is the author of Zone of Silence, prose, and poetry collection.

They Are Learning

Donna Freeman

November 5, 2023

They are learning separateness.

He his violin,

She her paper and pen.

A lover of the instrument

he carefully cradles it

to the spare room

takes it from its case 

touches the strings,

and begins a Romance 

by Beethoven.

In the other room

a pen lies flat on a table.

She smiles, draws it to her,

caresses its body.

While ink flows

her fingers form letters.

Words are born.

Passion gives birth as poetry.

Now in both rooms

Music sings out.

They are his creation,

They are hers.

A new harmony

after all these years.

Donna Freeman’s poetry has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, Blue Lake Review, Ocean State Poets Anthology, RI Public's Radio "Virtual Gallery," and ekphrastic exhibits. She is a retired clinical social worker, teacher, and avid animal lover. Donna has lived with her husband, a professor and scientist, for fifty-one years.

Celebration

Milton Jordan

October 29, 2023

We saw in Sunday’s society pages 

photos of two women with bright smiles

flanked by family and friends from the church

they’d attended together for years,

with two robed clergy guiding their vows

no longer threatened with harsh charges

and possible detention for fulfilling

the responsibilities of their orders.

In other jurisdictions, perhaps Maine

or Massachusetts, these photos might bring

smiles of gratitude, a joy remembered,

but here, from forests along the Neches

to the staked plain above the Brazos breaks,

those bright smiles ring in a double celebration.

Milton Jordan lives with Anne in Georgetown, Texas. He co-edited the first Texas Poetry Assignment anthology, Lone Star Poetry, Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022.

Ode to the Fire Ant

Thomas Quitzau

October 22, 2023

 Manor, TX  2023

Oh, gentle Germans who saw something here

In the 1830s without AC or OFF or lights,

Were you tickled by the tall glistening grasses?

It couldn’t have been city lights that now

Beckon and taunt, the “rip-off artists” or

The proud weirdos winding through the paved

Parallel corridors near the Little Colorado. 

How tough you must have been so long ago!

But, not as robust as this bride, rolling

Beneath the arbor, white dress flung up,

Swatting at some other migrants, stronger than

You, pound for pound, clinging to the lace train,

Dodging palms, stopping laughter, post-happily-ever-after,

Her maids circling her now, searching for the tiny

Anti-sycophants bonding with the popular gown

Before mom descends for one last rescue of her girl 

With a new last German name.

Thomas Quitzau grew up in the Gulf Coast region and worked for over 30 years in Houston, Texas. A self-ascribed member of the ZenJourno School of Poetry, Tom recently relocated with his family to Long Island, New York where he teaches and writes.

The Next Best Time: An Anniversary Poem

Betsy Joseph

October 15, 2023

On this sunlit afternoon

with March gentle as a lamb,

a particular Chinese proverb comes to mind:

“The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago.

The next best time is now.”

You and I were not together twenty years ago,

so I could not plant a kiss on your lips.

Now, though, we are at last together

and so I plant twenty kisses on your smiling face

to make up for the years missed

plus one more, 

for this next best time.

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems which have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron.

In addition, she and her husband, photographer Bruce Jordan, have produced two books, Benches and Lighthouses, which pair her haiku with his black and white photography.

The Book

Suzanne Morris

October 8, 2023

–after Machinery’s Handbook,

  for Machine Shop and Drafting-Room, 1946 edition

I came so close

to giving it away.

Not carelessly– no, never– 

but to someone half your age

whom you loved like a son

who would

deeply reverence

the encyclopedic tome,

I was sure, as I composed

a letter to him,

would tenderly turn

thin yellowing leaves

while pieces of spine

flaked off and fell

like tiny steel shavings

spiraling to the floor

the book by now almost as old as

you were at the end

and every bit as

well-seasoned and weary.

But then, with the book

open in my hands

I came to see it as

the only tangible link to

the young entrepreneur

starting out in his trade

over fifty years ago:

those long nights under

the shop lights, and

no one there but you,

designing essentials that

no one would see

so ships could sail and

planes could fly

the book’s deep green cloth cover

grimy from hasty hands

seeking the guidance

on offer inside

the oil-smudged pages of

logarithms and mathematical tables

you turned to again and again.

I’ve wrapped the book snugly

and put it away

feeling somehow humbled as

the last person ever to know

all the book has to say about

the hard-working

man who owned it.

Suzanne Morris is a novelist and poet.  Her poems have appeared in online journals including Texas Poetry Assignment, New Verse News, Arts Alive San Antonio, Stone Quarterly Review, The Pine Cone Review, and The Emblazoned Soul.  She lives in Cherokee County.